


The Bare Facts

by Random_Nexus, Tysolna



Series: Murderverse [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Collaboration, Gen, Murder'verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2018-11-21 21:53:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11366382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Nexus/pseuds/Random_Nexus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tysolna/pseuds/Tysolna
Summary: It's summer in London. The criminal classes are taking a holiday, while Sherlock and John deal with the heat as best as they can. A case of embezzlement at a beach resort sounds just like the ticket to get out of the heat and dip their feet into the water. But the waters can be deeper than any of them realise...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here we have another story arc in what Tysolna and I have been calling our 'Murder'verse' due to the last fic in the series: "Murder He Wrote", although the first fic in the series was "Kidnapped in Cambridge". 
> 
> **Please note:** Tags will change as the fic develops.

John blew out a big sighing breath as he closed the street door behind himself and automatically flicked the lock before continuing, muttering, “Thank bloody god”, under his breath as he enjoyed the cooler air of the foyer and the lack of sunlight. It was summer in England, which was usually a bit uncomfortable now and then, but rarely ever came close to the sort of heat he’d experienced back in Afghanistan; although, recently he’d begun to have his doubts. 

Upon entering the flat, he asked in a normal voice, “How the hell are we having temperatures in the thirties for nearly _two weeks_?” It took him nearly a minute to find the shape of his flatmate on the sofa, stretched out with his fingers aligned in his favourite ‘thinking pose’ and his eyes closed. “I’ve been having nightmares that I’ve re-enlisted”, he grumbled as he headed to the kitchen to fetch himself a drink from the fridge.

Sherlock wandered in his mind palace, sorting information, storing what was important and deleting useless trivia. He was too hot for any other activity, even just wearing almost threadbare pyjama bottoms and with the fan doing its best to blow something of a breeze around the living room. Besides, he felt less of his transport when engaging in mental activities. 

He came across a room saying ‘store for later sorting’, and gave a mental shrug. Now was as good time as any, he supposed, and opened the door. 

A stack of notes flew around in the breeze, almost all of them marked ‘John’. Oh, yes, he had been meaning to go back to those for quite some time now, ever since the day he accidentally over-caffeinated himself.

Standing with the door of the refrigerator open, John debated between a cold beer and a cold juice—as a doctor, he knew he ought to go for the juice, if not just water, but he _wanted_ the beer—and spoke over his shoulder. “Not that I’d ever do that… re-enlist…” he poked around a bit in the fridge, still debating with himself, and half-certain that Sherlock was in his mind palace or something. Sherlock in his mind palace would be oblivious to anything John said, no matter what volume he said it at, but if he was just lying there ignoring anything not directly addressed to him, then John felt the need to clarify. “I might’ve wanted to go back once upon a time, but not now.” That was an enormous understatement, actually, because John could think of no place he’d rather be than London; specifically, at 221B Baker Street with his mad genius of a flatmate. Well, maybe with a bit less of a heat wave, but still… “Fine, fine”, he muttered at his inner physician as he plucked out a bottle of citrus juice blend. Raising his voice, just in case, he called out, “D’you want anything from the fridge, Sherlock?”

Sherlock was faintly aware of John coming back to 221B—or maybe that was one of the memories he was sorting through, he couldn't be quite sure. He picked up one of the mental notes, read ‘physical contact, reference: cat’, and remembered John checking his pulse, again cross-referenced to being sideways-hugged by John while they were looking out of the window. 

Sherlock had never been a tactile person, the two exceptions being his parents, which he supposed was quite logical. Never before though had he felt comfortable being hugged by another person, yet the matter-of-fact uncomplicated friendly hug John gave him was a treasured, yet slightly confusing memory. He tagged the note with ‘further investigation into touch’ and tucked it in one of his honeycomb-shaped storage arrays.

Waiting less than a minute, John shrugged and closed the fridge. “I’ll take that as a ‘nope’ or possibly a ‘Currently ignoring you, John’, shall I?” Huffing out a little breath of amusement, he unscrewed the lid of the plastic bottle of juice and paused in the kitchen doorway, head thrown back to shamelessly guzzle the whole half-litre in one go.

Going through and sorting more of his notes regarding John, Sherlock found many that he would have described as ‘sentiment’, even ‘caring’. Suddenly, Mycroft's voice floated over, with his chorus of, _“Caring is not an advantage.”_ “Shut up, Mycroft, and get out. You have no business here.” He waved Mycroft's image away from this room, which he had now re-designated ‘John’. Intriguingly, the room had taken on a golden-brown hue reminiscent of beeswax and the sun reflecting off John's hair, surprising but not unpleasant. 

There was something else, something he had been missing, what was it? What?

Oh yes. A cold drink. He opened his eyes.

“A cold drink would be nice, yes. Thank you, John.”

Taking a big gulp of air and swiping a knuckle across his mouth out of habit—not that he’d dribbled—John looked over at Sherlock and smirked a little. “At least you answered before I’d gone upstairs”, he teased dryly, turning back toward the fridge. Sherlock wasn’t particularly fond of beer, let alone the brand John preferred, and far be it from John to miss a chance at foisting nutrition off on his friend, so he chose another juice. Tossing his emptied bottle and its lid into the recycle bin on his way, John sat on the coffee table next to the sofa as he extended the bottle to Sherlock. “What’s on?”

Unfolding himself from the sofa, Sherlock took the bottle of juice from John. “Nothing”, he sighed after taking a large gulp of the juice. “Absolutely nothing. It appears the criminal classes are taking their summer holidays.”

“Lucky them”, quipped John. He leaned into the flow of the oscillating fan, its artificial breeze cooling his sweaty face and neck. “Another tepid soak in the bath for me tonight. Ugh.”

“I'd prefer a cold shower myself”, Sherlock said, “it's a shock to the system, but it brings the core temperature down nicely.” 

John probably did not realise that the fan was blowing over him towards Sherlock, carrying the scents of aftershave, deodorant and sweat into his direction. Sherlock tried not to sniff too obviously, but still catalogued the scent combination. It was not unpleasant, which surprised him, especially the smell of recent sweat on John's skin, somehow clean and fresh, like linen hung out in the sun to dry. 

He smelled like the heat of the sun; the combination with the after shave gave it a spicy note, making Sherlock think of John in Afghanistan... Hang on, did he say something about re-enlisting?

“Mmm… yeah”, John replied, nodding with his eyes still closed into the stream of air from the fan. He could imagine the goosebump-ridden shock of cold water on hot skin. Bliss. “And, after a while of that, the heat almost feels good… well, for a while”, he temporised, shrugging slightly with a tilt of his head.

Briefly, Sherlock imagined taking that cold shower together with John, but that was probably, as John would say, _“A bit not good.”_

“Actually”, John said consideringly, “that sounds like a much better idea.”

Sherlock looked at John with a start, blinking, but then he realised that John was replying to what he’d said, not what he’d been thinking. 

Missing Sherlock’s expression, only opening his eyes as he rose to his feet, John started to walk away, but paused and turned back to Sherlock with a diffident expression. “Did you want to have the first go at the shower?” He was hot and sweaty, granted, but Sherlock’s fair skin showed a hint of pink blotches here and there—more so than seemed usual for him in the summer—and his fringe was stuck to his forehead at one spot. Also, to be fair, he’d introduced the idea. 

Sherlock waved an imperious hand. “No, go right ahead, I'll be fine. And it's not like you'll be using up all the hot water again.”

John nodded, chuckling. “True, true. Thanks.” He gave a vague farewell wave as he headed in the direction of the bathroom. In a very few moments the groan and rattle of the pipes announced the water starting up in the shower.

Sherlock found that even now, he was looking in the direction of the bathroom, his mind insisting on conjuring up images of naked John in the shower. He frowned in annoyance and shook himself. What he needed was a distraction. Maybe there was an email or some comment on his website to take his mind off the images of wet, naked John.

After a long, leisurely—blessedly _cool_ —shower, John passed through the kitchen into the sitting room with a contented sigh. “You were absolutely right. Started tepid and went to cold. I feel worlds better!” He wore his striped bathrobe, which he kept on the left hook on the back of the bathroom door, next to Sherlock’s. John plopped down into his chair, hair combed, but damp, looking as pleased as he sounded. The motion made the skirts of his dressing gown flutter upward, revealing his bare legs nearly to mid-thigh for just a fraction of a second, although John didn’t seem to notice or care as he reached for the nearby newspaper.

Sherlock looked up from his laptop, barely noticing John's bare legs. “Don't get too comfortable. We need to pack.”

John’s brows shot upward and he halted in his motion toward the paper. “Pack? Now? I just got cooled off!”

“Case, John”, Sherlock said, rising from the sofa. “Finally, a case. Pack lightly, bring towels. A friend of mine owns a beach resort, and money has gone missing. She thinks one of her employees is stealing from her, but can't be sure.” He sighed. “Better call in at work, we may be gone a few days.”

“Oh?” John’s entire demeanour shifted from ready to be annoyed to pleasantly surprised. “Beach resort, you say? Well, all right, then!” He stood, a much-cheered smile blossoming on his face. “Things have been almost as quiet at the clinic as they have been around here lately; shouldn’t have any trouble taking a bit of leave.” John headed for the door, but stopped to turn back, one hand on the doorframe. “What do you think? Gun?”

Sherlock cocked his head, considering. “Better safe than sorry, no?”

John nodded, pointing at Sherlock with a slightly off-kilter quirk of his lips before continuing on and up the stairs. Faint whistling echoed down the stairwell a few minutes later.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! We're not dead! Here's a little update for you, which we hope will be followed by another, larger one in the very near future.

The first thing John heard as he came back downstairs a short while later, the smaller of the two duffel bags he owned over one shoulder, was Sherlock’s displeased voice coming from the sitting room. “…can’t possibly! We’re on our way out the door!” John stood in the doorway to the sitting room, watching Sherlock pace agitatedly in a loose circle in front of the windows, in turn stepping over or onto the various detritus on the floor without even noticing. “No we cannot just _swing by on our way_ out of town!” He turned and glanced at John, clearly listening to whomever he was speaking to on his phone, and then gestured at John grandly as he declared, “I can’t—we can’t—we’re already packed, for god’s sake!”

John mouthed, “Who is it?” and Sherlock rolled his eyes extravagantly enough that his whole head moved as well, mouthing back, “Dimmock!” with an equally extravagant sneer. John raised an eyebrow. “Case...?” he mouthed in return, smiling a bit at Sherlock’s drama. 

Sherlock waved dismissively, mouthing “Paperwork. Boring.”

“Is he still on about our statements for that ridiculous inflatable sheep case?” John asked quietly. “I wouldn’t mind getting it out of the way.”

Sherlock hesitated briefly, then spoke into the phone. “We can give statements over the phone—Yes I know it's not done, but the car will be here any minute so take what you can get—No, we can _not_.” He handed the phone over to John. “Here, you try and make him see sense, I need to pack.” Leaving John looking surprised, Sherlock bounded down the small hallway to his room.

When Sherlock returned, John, still on the phone, asked him “Where is it we're actually going?”

“Fairlight Glen, Hastings.” 

John’s brows rose in a pleasantly surprised reaction to the locale as he repeated the name back to Dimmock. 

At the other end of the line, Dimmock made an odd, musing sound and said, “Fairlight Glen in Hastings, eh?”

“Yeah, some sort of beach resort “, John replied, watching Sherlock, who was lurking impatiently by the windows, and the detective nodded as if fully aware John was looking at him, not bothering to speak what would probably be a sharp-toned ‘surely you’re not so stupid as to have forgotten something I said less than an hour ago, John?’, or some variation of the same.

“Ah, yes. Well. For a case, though, eh?” Dimmock sounded… odd… John thought, but then, the man was a bit squirrelly sometimes, in John’s semi-professional opinion.

“Unfortunately, yes, we’re going to have to work for our mini-holiday “, John replied, figuring Dimmock was concerned John’s hopes might be up prematurely, given that they both knew what Sherlock was like on a case. 

Suddenly Sherlock jumped over to John and plucked the phone from his hand. “Sorry, that's all the time we have. Our car's here and we have to get going. Thank you for calling.” Without waiting for Dimmock to speak, Sherlock hung up and shoved the phone into his pocket. “You ready?” he asked John.

Chuckling, John scooped up his duffel bag with one hand and made a cutting gesture with the other toward the door. “Engage “, he said, and laughed when Sherlock rolled his eyes at him and strode out the door, muttering under his breath, “You and your silly scifi shows...”

“Yeah, but now you _know_ it’s from a silly scifi show,” John retorted as he quickly locked the door behind them. “Proof that our film nights are working!” Sherlock’s disgusted snort only kept the smug smile on John’s face as they made their way out to the rental car.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Look! There's more! ;D

Despite the usual traffic they made good time out of central London and onto the M25. John amused himself for a short time fishing through the glove compartment, finding some things that should have been cleared out by the rental agency before they’d been issued the car: a slender notebook full of scribbled names, addresses, and travel-oriented web sites, as well as some sketches and snatches of what looked like the beginnings of poetry, and a strip of coloured condoms. 

Given that they were on the M25, even Sherlock’s mighty brain was mostly taken up with driving, sparing little attention for John’s murmured commentary on his mini treasure hunt. His snort about the proto-poetry, however, was almost his only reaction, though the condoms got a small eye-roll and a muttered curse—John learned moments later that the curse was actually for a lorry driver trying to encroach upon their lane. John crammed the contents back into the glove compartment just then, due to the increase in traffic, and he pretty much forgot about them after three more cars earned themselves some colourful language from both Sherlock and John due to their vehicular misconduct.

Periodically, in the lulls between more intense traffic, John made various inroads toward getting more information on the case that was taking them to the seaside resort, and though Sherlock mostly ignored or deflected—John was rarely taken in by Sherlock’s clever verbal distractions anymore, though he still fell for it now and then, regardless—but he did, eventually learn a little more.

Of course he had to ask… again. “So, friend of yours at a beach resort thinks someone’s embezzling “, John said casually, glancing over at Sherlock briefly. “Not the sort of thing you usually give a toss about; though, given the beach resort part of the matter, I’m not complaining. Only “, he paused and considered his words briefly before just carrying on, “well, you usually aren’t all that concerned about the… you know… the transport.”

Sherlock sighed. "The location is incidental, John. We're not going on a holiday." He indicated and overtook a slow-moving lorry. "The resort is run by an old friend of mine, Vivienne Hennessy. I owe her a favour."

“Oh, really?” John was surprised and couldn’t help the teasing undercurrent to his smile and words. “I suppose it had to happen eventually—the favour shoe being on the other foot, so to speak. I’m thinking this ought to go on the calendar. Maybe even in the blog.” 

If he didn't have to watch the road, Sherlock would be rolling his eyes. "Yes, yes, you've made your point. Do you want to know more or not?"

Chuckling quietly, John made a rolling gesture of invitation. “Oh, yes. Yes, I do. Please, go on.”

Mollified, Sherlock continued. "Eleven years ago, Vivienne was living in a hippie commune in Kent. I needed to go undercover there, but she found me out pretty quickly. Nothing much passes by her. Instead of blowing my cover, she let me know and asked if she could help me. Her help proved to be invaluable..." He trailed off. After a second, he shook himself slightly and continued. "Anyway. She has asked me to find out which of her employees has their hands in the till and providing her guests with recreational drugs, if they are even the same person. A request like this coming from a perceptive person like her is not something I would refuse lightly."

“Eleven years?” John was genuinely surprised and even more curious than before. Good God, Sherlock would’ve been barely legal… well, okay, in his twenties, anyhow. He bit down on the first few questions that came to mind, because he tried not to bring up Sherlock’s former drug habits unless it was directly relevant—the man had come quite far and didn’t deserve to have it rubbed in his face all the time. He spared an inward sneer for Mycroft, who John still thought bungled interactions with his brother more often than someone as intelligent as he was ought to do.

"I can hear you thinking, John", Sherlock smiled. "I was clean at the time, though not entirely through choice. Coming back to the present, however, our job will be to find out where the drugs in Vivienne's resort are coming from and which employee she needs to fire, while posing as resort guests will give us ample cover and time."

Though he felt a bit like denying that he’d been thinking along those lines, John knew better. He’d long since learned that most people were glaringly transparent to his friend, especially himself—or so it seemed—and most of the time he accepted it as a condition of living and working with one of the most brilliant people he’d ever met. Instead, he merely looked thoughtful as he considered what else he ought to know. Then a thought surfaced that made him inhale to speak, hesitate, and then commit. “Guests. Are we being ourselves or otherwise? I mean, two mates off to the seaside or… well, a couple… or something.” Clearing his throat, he made an effort to keep his tone casual and easy. “How do you want to play it?”

"We'll certainly be ourselves to Vivienne; she knows why we're there. As for the other staff and guests, I would go for couple. I don't want either of us being distracted by other people's advances; that would unnecessarily complicate things. Unless you would prefer otherwise...?"

John was shaking his head before he’d really even thought it through. Just the idea of trying to pull with Sherlock around automatically raised red flags in John’s mind, given past dating incidences and disasters, but hard on the almost rueful amusement that came with those brief flashes of memory was the realisation that things had changed in recent months. John had changed, as had Sherlock, and he was still waiting to see where those changes led. Besides, the cases came first. That was one of Sherlock’s hard and fast rules from the very beginning. Though he’d stalled out on the head-shake for a moment, John still managed to reply fairly quickly, “Oh, no. I agree. Couple it is.” 

Sherlock nodded. "Good. Oh, for God's sake!" The latter was directed at a small Fiat packed to the roof with bags and suitcases and driving a constant 45 while a steady stream of cars on the other lanes prevented him from overtaking.

Making a sympathetically frustrated huff at the dawdler, John decided it would be wise to just leave Sherlock to drive; he’d learned what he wanted to know and even had a little extra food for thought. 

Not long after they finally got off the M25, they neared the coastline. By that time, in defiance of the rental car's air conditioning, Sherlock was driving with the window open, testily claiming the car ‘smelled of previous occupants. An elderly couple, judging by the lingering scent of lily-of-the-valley perfume and Old Spice after-shave.’ John didn’t care for the blast of hot, muggy air at first, but once he caught the distinctive smell of the sea upon the slightly cooler air, he began to enjoy himself much more.

John lowered his own window all the way and took in great lungsful of the salt-tinged air, leaning his head back and smiling a little. This was the stuff, he thought. With an almost pleasant sort of droning lethargy that came after a few hours’ driving, he let his mind drift, mentally speculating on what was to come. Only a few minutes later, he opened his eyes at a definite shift in the speed of the car to find Sherlock was taking the exit, leaving the steady streams of traffic behind them. Straightening in his seat, John started looking around again, no longer feeling the slightest bit drowsy. 

The gravel was crunching under the tires of their rental car as they turned into the driveway following the sign for Fairlight Glen. Soon a Victorian manor house appeared over the hedges.

Once past the hedges, Sherlock parked the car and stretched. "Well", he said, "here we are."

Looking around as he slowly got out and grimaced, John pulled his shirt away from his back where he’d sweated against the seat. “It’s well secluded, isn’t it?” He made a little squeaky sound in the back of his throat as he stretched, feeling his spine crackle a bit.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, it is." He popped open the boot. "Let's get our bags and check in, shall we?" He strode off in the direction of the manor house.

John came around to the boot and then, as Sherlock walked away, called out, “Oi, Princess Posh, I’m not your valet!”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at John and called, "It's not my fault you didn't pack light."

Smiling in a way that was only half about humour, John huffed out a short, “Ha!” as he pulled out his small duffel and hooked it over his good shoulder, leaving Sherlock’s leather travel bag in the open boot. “Some detective you are “, he muttered as he sauntered away from the car toward Sherlock.

Sherlock raised his eyebrow as he saw John carrying just his own bag from the open car boot, then rolled his eyes and sighed a put-upon sigh. His straight-backed posture speaking volumes, he turned around, walked back to the car, took his leather bag out and closed the boot. Walking back to where John waited for him, he did his best to ignore the smirk on John's face.

Where, once upon a time, he knew Sherlock would have kept going—all but forcing John to go back and get his friend’s bag or risk it being stolen—John was pleasantly surprised behind his teasing smirk. Given that he could tell Sherlock was playing it up rather than genuinely miffed, he didn’t tease him any further as he came even with John and continued toward the entrance. Having looked around a bit while waiting for Sherlock, John then took up his usual spot at his friend’s side, saying, “Looks like they’ve got some private cabins as well as whatever rooms are available in the main building. That might be nice.”

"I don't think they have rooms in the main house. There's the breakfast room, library, and the bar. Swimming pool too if Vivien got planning for it..." he trailed off as they came closer to the main entrance.

“Well, let’s hope you solve it with your usual speed “, John said, glancing up at Sherlock with a cheerful brow wiggle. “More time for us to make use of some of those rooms, _and_ the pool, or maybe even have a go at the actual sea.”

Sherlock nodded absent-mindedly, "Solve the case, yes."

“ _And_ have a little fun “, John rejoined with pedantic cheer.

John was spared a no doubt acerbic response as they reached the entrance to the building. 

Sherlock made a beeline for the check-in desk as John looked around. The hall looked like a very posh hotel, with tasteful carpeting and wallpaper, on which hung half a dozen water colours of the local landscape. Brass fittings and comfortable-looking furniture completed the effect. A bit homely, yet charming, just like the proprietor, who appeared with a beaming smile, coming around the check-in desk to envelop Sherlock in a hug. 

“Sherlock!” the woman cried in a warm, happy drawl of enthusiasm as she wrapped the unresisting consulting detective in her arms. 

For a moment, Sherlock stood like a statue, not knowing what to do. Then he dropped his bag and hugged the woman back with a genuine smile. "Vivienne. You look lovely as ever." 

“Oh, you gorgeous liar, you “, she deflected, a wash of pink tinging her tanned and wrinkled features. “Who’s your friend? Is this your blogger?” Her brown eyes fairly twinkled at John over Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock disentangled himself and reached out to John. "Vivienne, this is my friend, Doctor John Watson." 

“How do you do, Vivienne?” John smiled and extended a hand to the woman, surprised and pleased to see another person who apparently valued his friend for himself, as well as his talents. She had a warm, dry hand with a strong grip, which she held for a long moment; her other hand had curled into the crook of Sherlock’s elbow, as if to include him in her greeting of his friend. “Yes, I am the blogger “, John said in a mock-sober tone. 

Vivienne grinned knowingly at him. "Oh I am sure you are more than just Sherlock's blogger."

John’s brows went up and he chuckled, glancing at Sherlock to make sure he knew he was being included in the humour—Sherlock didn’t always get the intention of teasing—as he grinned. “And much, much more… not only his colleague in crime-solving, but occasional chief cook and bottle-washer.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Don't forget tea-maker, guinea pig, and friend."

Vivienne let out an almost girlish giggle, chiming in with John’s laugh. 

“True “, John agreed, tilting his head to give Vivienne a charming wink. “I do make a mean cuppa, but we’re still working on the whole ‘consenting to the experiment _before_ he’s dosed me’ thing. However “, he caught Sherlock’s gaze, still smiling warmly, “yeah, friend. I think ‘friend’ covers all of it, really.”

Sherlock was smiling without even planning to, at not only the warmth, but the affection in John’s tone and expression, and yet he couldn’t seem to form a coherent sentence in his mind for a moment. Just then, movement behind John caught his attention.

A naked man had just entered the lobby.


End file.
